


Tear it down piece by piece

by moonstruckmuse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Dramatic Draco Malfoy, Fluffy Ending, HP Kinktober 2020, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Mental Health Issues, My First Fanfic, POV Draco Malfoy, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Snakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27204610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstruckmuse/pseuds/moonstruckmuse
Summary: Draco just wants to get rid of this stupid Dark Mark. Why is this so complicated?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 49
Collections: HP Kinktober 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic ever so please be gentle but give me all the constructive criticism! 
> 
> All smut is in the third chapter.
> 
> I had a quick and dirty fic about Draco getting a sexy coverup tattoo and Harry loving it, but then magic said you can't cover up a Dark Mark, so Hermione had to get involved, and then Draco had feels about everything so we had to go to therapy and I guess this thing will have chapters. So much for an easy and quick fic.
> 
> Title from Demons, by Jacob Lee. Go listen to it if you haven't!

It's not a surprise to anyone who knows him, but he LOATHES the Dark Mark. He hates needles - so violating and invasive; he hates their permanency - a mark of who you were in the past, never able to erase it; he hates the attention - how people's eyes flicker to that immediately, and assume they know all about his life.

So maybe it's a surprise why he's so keen on learning how to tattoo, spending all his free time researching it. He certainly doesn't know how he got to this point. Whenever he was feeling desolate and dreary, or manic, or drunk out of his mind (which may have happened a few too many times, but hell, it's not like anyone was joining him at the Manor to take care of all the bottles in the wine cellar), he found himself perusing the Malfoy library, flipping through dusty tomes for ideas.

Maybe it's because he already tried to cut it off and failed. Now the stupid Mark is ringed by a red scar of its own, like he fucking circled it for attention. Damn it.

So back to the books it is. And of course, being a personal library with decades of shady people curating it (Draco was sure there MUST be some decent ancestors, but he certainly never heard stories about them from the last two centuries), the books themselves were often cursed, or leaked poison, or some other less than appealing trait. Apparently just writing about the Dark Arts was enough to make magical paper get imbued with its spirits, and books just love to share their knowledge, because that's exactly what books were designed to do.

The first time after the war that he had hit the books was 3 years after it all. He had started going to a Mind Healer (Blair, a nice enough lady, though she looked at him with too much pity in her eyes), who talked to him about the stages of grief, though most of those words seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Denial, he supposed. After she finished explaining everything to him, and prompted him to share his thoughts, he tried, he really did. He got to the point of recounting the first time Voldemort stepped into his house, before throwing his hands up and walking out, shockwaves of magic lashing out around him and blasting everything in the room out. Anger. He sent her an apology letter the next day, along with a hefty Gringott's note to cover the costs, all delivered by Taffy, who stayed for several hours helping her get everything sorted out. Even Taffy looked at him with those woeful eyes, but he wasn't sure if maybe she just always liked like that.

The bargaining phase, Draco breezed through in an instance, or so he thought. Malfoys were adept traders, of course, born with a gilded tongue and taught to wield it with precision and grace. His second Mind Healer (Tabitha, who was just so bubbly and chatty, but with an intense stare through some hideous specs) disagreed with his assessment, saying that he was actually really caught up with the bargaining phase, but really, he won the bargains. Right? He survived. His family survived. So really, it's _FINE_. It's all _GREAT_. She tried to get him to drop the attitude; he dropped seeing her instead.

The third Mind Healer was a great guy. Perfect amount of patience, not too prying but also directed his thoughts and processing, all great stuff. Draco thought maybe he could stick with this fellow for a bit. But at some point, he couldn't ignore it any longer - his name was Vincent, and it just hurt too much to say that. Who knew you could say, "it's not you, it's me" to a healer?

The last one (hopefully! And only 5 years after the end of his world as he knew it), sits perched half on top of her recliner's arm, with one leg dangling over the side. Today, she's wearing earrings that appear to be disco balls, and sunglasses that walk the line between high fashion and absolutely ridiculous. Of course, it's none other than Luna. He had his reservations about going to her, especially since she was directly involved with the whole thing, but she assured him that she was impartial as a Jupiter Rabbit, and could look through her mirror collection for more clarity if needed. Whatever that meant. And it seemed to be working, maybe because he had no worries about her judging (because really, who is she to judge how messed up someone is?), and he, strangely enough, just trusted her to have his best interest at heart. She was surprisingly insightful, though sometimes he wondered if it was him reading deeper thoughts into her statements.

\---

"But talk to me again about the tattoos. Your eyes start to talk, even if your voice doesn't carry the message. It's very enlightening." Luna sips her tea gently, nodding along as he starts again.

He's started to reclaim his arm, he feels. The flesh there doesn't feel as foreign as it did, his skin doesn't want to literally crawl off his forearm anymore, he doesn't grab his arm and think about ripping the whole damn thing off. He's thinking about designs that could cover up the mark, or integrate into it to make it part of his past, or some way to own his sins and his history, even if he hates everything about it. She mumbles a low "Good, yes... That sounds like acceptance, Draco. Let's explore that."

So despite the books prickling his fingers as he turns the pages, or his most recent mishap of ink squirting out of a particularly enthusiastic book, he finds himself looking for ways to add to his mark, not remove it. It feels like reclaiming his past. It feels like redemption. The artwork needs to be strong and dark enough on its own to battle the traces of dark magic still in it. It needs to be passionate magic, enough to best the rabid dedication of Voldemort's followers and the power they lent the Mark. And yet... He wants it to be beautiful, something that looks like hope, and peace, and maybe even happiness. He has no idea what that looks like. He spends so much of his self-imposed isolation (now it's by choice, so it's _totally_ different than when he was on house arrest, _thank you very much_ ) daydreaming about what it _could_ look like instead. Maybe it might even be something he looks forward to seeing, instead of this monstrosity on his arm, this stain that feels like it's on his soul. He doubts it'll be able to be covered up, forearm aching with remembered pain from the one time he tried. He just wanted to go grab a pint. Willed up all that courage to walk out the door, tried to cast just a bit of a Glamour over the Mark, just to double over in pain as it literally started smoking, red hot in its fury at being covered. The Mark hurt for days afterwards, and Taffy would change the burn dressings for him.

Luna suggests that this is likely something best tackled with others who might know more about it. She offers to call in a specialist who might be able to help with the magical theory behind this. Why not, he thinks, it's not like anyone in the wizarding world doesn't know what a disgrace I am. Apparently he says it aloud, because Luna giggles and bounces excitedly and before he knows it, Granger has just flooed in, looking as baffled as he feels. She darts a quick glance at Luna, who just smiles warmly and puts her hand on Granger's arm, then motions at Draco. Flustered, feeling the flush rising fast across his face, he thanks the witch for coming in today. Deep breath. Then an apology, with a _PS I get it if you want to just leave_. To his surprise, she warily sits, extends her hand to shake his, and then settles in to work, promising to look into it further and send him recommendations of books to peruse or other relevant snippets from her research.

From there, it feels like Luna has a new person there every single week. There's the eldest Weasley son ("please, call me Bill"; cursebreaker), Dumbledore in a painting of a candy shop (lost half the time off-painting, giddy as a first year), Madam Pince (he has to fight the urge to whisper around her, but she has so many strategies for managing those wayward books), Terry Boot (specialist in teleportation and specifically Uncommon Portkey Systems - UPS), Alyssa Wentworth (symbologist with Languages Or Glyphs Or Symbols at Bideford), Dennis Creevy (researcher of magical art), Griselda Marchbanks (who looks so frail and dainty, yet her magical assessments just about knocked him off his feet), and finally Blaise (who he hasn't seen since school, tattoo artist), who just smirks at him before saying, "Why didn't you come to me sooner?"

He gets good at starting his sessions with an apology, easier to say here under the dimmed lighting with lingering sage in the air, as well as smudged hydrangea and gladiolus flowers. Draco's never heard of people smudging with flowers, but sure, why not. Besides, it's Luna. 

Surprisingly to him, Blaise is probably one of the hardest to apologize to. It figures. He's always been one of the folks most immune to Draco's charm, after all, and has seen most of his formative years and how arrogant he got. Blaise lets him apologize, with an impassive face through the whole thing. No response. Draco then tries apologizing for just general shittiness at school. Nothing. Draco stammers out some more stuff, getting a little frantic, accidentally justifies some of his behavior and then stumbles to backtrack, and feels like he's one step from grovelling at Blaise's feet before the bastard cracks a smile, stands up and extends his arms, and says, "Just get over here, you utter twat. It's been too long." Draco goes willingly, but not before noting the mirth in Luna's eyes, her jingle bell earrings shaking with her restrained laughter.

From there, it gets easier. Sessions refocus on healing himself, on learning coping strategies to deal with the deeply apathetic depression he has with regards to everything asides from this stupid blemish on his skin. Draco still corresponds with the others about the tattoo. Luna calls it his Extreme Makeover and cast. Draco thinks to himself that he didn't really need help to be more fabulous, but he does preen just a little to think that he has a cast. Nevertheless, it's slow going, with lots of talk but very little action. At least it gives him something to do. 

He daydreams of designs that could cover up the abomination, the constant reminder of his failings. Maybe just a giant black hole, where he can hope his history is sucked into and destroyed. Or a Hebridean black, a dragon, squashing the stupid Mark under the weight of its body. He saw some cool tribal tattoos on a handsome man in the paper - maybe he could pull off cool and edgy, instead of chewed up and spit out on the wrong side of history. He falls asleep at the drawing table, smudges of graphite on his face, only waking when Taffy tugs gently and utters a " _Please, Sir is to be going good sleeps in his bed."_ How Lucius would sneer if he saw his son doodling this rot, flowers and flourishes and fluff. But then again, he wouldn't be in this predicament, would be, except for father dearest.

He doesn't tell the others, but he starts experimenting with what he learned. When he tried to cut out the mark the last time, it was as if the flesh surrounding the mark were made of stone - unyielding, knife skittering across the edge of the stone, though blood welled up in its tracks. If he focused on his own magic, he could see the brand in his mind's eye, sinisterly curling into his own at that location. Yet if he tried to tease apart where the Dark Lord's separated, he found himself unable to do so. It danced away from his prying, scattering, splashing even further away from the mark. He stopped that experiment at once, hoping that the dark embers of magic didn't settle into other parts of his body to grow. He tried again, this time with using his wand to nudge dots of tattoo ink into the scar surrounding his mark, and then watched in horror as the snake, so long dormant, hissed once again and slid over to the dot to devour it. His insides quivered and squirmed, uncomfortable yet again with just the sight of the Mark. He wondered if trying it again would just feed the beast. _Damn it._

\---

It's truly bizarre how rapidly his life seems to be turning around nowadays. Acquaintances, no, friends from all houses? People dropping in to see how he's doing? He learns that Granger's frenzied babbling about her latest research could be quelled with a hot cup of tea. Boot travels in with so many different strategies it was mind boggling - Floo one day, Portkey another time, oftentimes just apparition, but one very baffling time that parts of Boot just kept appearing over the span of 5 minutes, thankfully assembling his body without any of Draco's involvement. "Rapid staggered multivalent Portkey! Really, that went quite smoothly," claims Terry, waving what must have been the enchanted drawer at him. Fortunately, Draco was able to nudge said drawer into the fireplace after Terry forgot it there, and it caught on fire just like wood should. Who knows, maybe he was starting bits of fire somewhere far away.

Even Neville Longlegs or whatever, the boy who actually turned into quite a decent looking man, even wrote him the other day, writing about types of inks made from less common species, possibly even imbuing their own powers. A galleon that Luna probably mentioned his predicament to Longbottom.

But the biggest shock wasn't Longbottom's note, out of the blue. And, it wasn't Hermione running late after she messaged urgently by falcon, **_"I think I've got it._** Malfoy, I'm bringing company to help with this, but I'll be there in 30 minutes. We've got to do this tonight - exactly 6 months from the anniversary of when you know who was raised again."

No, the biggest shock was answering the door and expecting to be greeted by the no-nonsense Ms. Granger, and seeing those damned bright green eyes once again.

\----

Draco didn't remember what happened next, exactly, just that he was apparently making polite small talk with the crowd - POTTER, Hermione, Blaise, Luna, and Bill - just sitting in the elegant waiting room, sipping tea and taking deep breaths while he waited for the blind panic in his mind to subside. Thank Merlin for Taffy, because he truly didn't know how he got to be sitting down, or holding a cup of tea, or having this elaborate spread of pastries on the coffee table in front of them. He dared to look around the room, caught sight of Potter looking back then _quirking an eyebrow_ at him _(shit shit shit SHIT),_ and quickly immediately interrupted Hermione with a question.

"As I had already said, Draco, the ritual will likely comprise of multiple parts, and that was going to be involved in the third step." He nodded, sagely, definitely paying attention."I just wanted to clarify with you since this is such a complicated procedure." He didn't think anyone bought the excuse.

"Tonight so happens to be the opposite of when Voldemort returned. I theorize that it may be when his magic is most dormant, and therefore, the Mark may be more susceptible to being altered. Further examination and consultation with others has shown that the Mark reaches into the branded person's magic itself. Destruction of the Mark. Would require destruction of the flesh itself, perhaps destruction of the source of the magic it bound with. "

Draco shuddered. He had considered..., but no, Luna takes his hand and squeezes it tight.

"Since that's absolutely not acceptable," Hermione pauses, a small but warm smile in Draco's direction, "I think we may have a different solution. The goals are to weaken the Mark and its hold on you, to separate the parts attached to you as opposed to the Mark, to embrace your own magic tight, and then to encase what is left with love, so that the Dark magic is truly trapped. Only 4 steps! It's really not that bad, for a dark curse. Hopefully we don't run into any surprises along the way."


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours, a couple of panic attacks, two bottles of wine and a half a handle of Inferno whiskey, everyone was looking a little frazzled. Hermione had levitated what seemed like half the Malfoy library down to where they were, Bill had taken off his outer robes, wiping his brow, and Luna had started communing with what she said was a fascinating triad of Clatinibs over by the mantle. Draco was, quite frankly, concerned that Luna may be engaging in some Dark Magic unknowingly, but was also in too much of a tizzy to really get involved. Oh, he supposed Blaise probably wasn't frazzled, probably just being a human house cat and sprawled out on a chaise lounge somewhere, taking a nap. But Potter, of course, was fiddling with his wand, looking like he was sulking in the corner, arms crossed, messy hair obscuring his eyes. It really was quite unfair how Potter just seemed to attract everyone's attention even though he was just being a surly little snit. _He's filled out_ , his mind noted, _Have you seen just how WIDE his shoulders are?!_

While Potter swanned around being useless, Draco had been put through the ringer by Bill and Hermione. They had been rotating who cast protective charms, and who went digging through the mess of his magic in his arm. The errant black web of the Dark Lord's work still evaded them, and pretty much slapped Bill's hand with an insolent hiss of magic when he finally seemed to be getting somewhere. Bill kept rubbing his arm - the lash was pretty raised.

Draco's arm ached, though more muscle pain than anything else, maybe from clenching his fist so tightly. Come to think of it, his jaw hurt a good bit too. Maybe he's just clenching everything right now. Before he could assess further, he heard Bill mutter under his breath, and call Hermione over. Something about needing to separate the skull and the snake, untethering the two and seeing where that went. Draco wished he could go over and see what Hermione was now diagramming, but he was really just exhausted at this point. Not like they wouldn't be coming back in just a moment to torture him some more.

"Alright Draco, I think we've got a new idea that might really help us out with this. Just hang tight for a second - Bill is going to see if he can pull the two apart, and it might twinge a little. I'm sorry. You'll need to just hold still, maybe help hold up your magic while Bill works on the rest."

She started casting again, visualizing the magic again, elevating what she could. Slowly, thin golden strands of Draco's magic were raised out of his arm and into the air, looking like harp strings, but with tangled curls of matte black clumped down below, rooted into the Mark. As Bill used his wand to slowly tease out the clumps from each other, casting tiny severing charms here and there, it started to do finally look like two distinct masses of black, rather than the initial jumble. Dark strands fell away as he delicately peeled them out of cords of gold. But then, the snake of the Mark started unfurling. They were so engrossed in the weave of the magic that they didn't see, but Draco started to shake. 

"Hey, guys, umm, Weasley, Granger, the snake, it's coming, it's..."

And then Harry fucking Potter, of course, backlit by Draco's golden magic (looking sexy as sin), threw his stupid heroic self between the snake and everyone else, hissing right back, gesturing wildly. They went on for minutes, and Hermione crept up on it, wand drawn, until Potter waved her away. One long last hiss from the snake, and it seemingly went back into the skull, and stuck its... _tail_? out, revealing some kind of tether attaching her to the skull.

"Hey, umm, Bill, she's just pissed because we are tugging on her body and she didn't know why, but she's calmer now and if you could just cut that bit around her tail? I don't think she actually wants to hurt us."

Of _course_ Potter world take care of the snake, believe the snake. Nevermind the fact that it tried to _eat them all_ , Potter befriended the scaly beast. Oh, Circe's tits, what was happening with the day. Bill cast a sharp _Diffindo_ , the cord was broken, snake slithered back into the skull, and all of the threads just retracted back into his arm so quickly that he barely realized it happened, until he registered the pain. 

He slid back into his recliner with a big oof. "Alright, I need another break, because Holy Helga and Rowena sharing a broomstick, I am _BEAT_. Oh Taffy, yes, I'd love a peche melba but can you add the elderflower jelly instead? Thanks for being a dear." His eyes closed with a weary sigh, only to reopen when Taffy returned almost immediately with said dessert. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione's mouth open as if to say something about Taffy, then a pause, and then close, lips pursed in a thin line. 

"Alright Draco, we'll reconvene in ten. Enjoy your rest for now." 

"Taffy, could you go fetch Miss Granger a cup of tea? The ginger chai from Bombay should do the trick. That's a love." Eyes closed, Draco smirked as he savoured the rich dessert.

\---

Exactly ten minutes later, Hermione was back in front of the recliner, Draco lazily blinking in her direction. _"Honestly_ Draco, it's like I want this for you more than you want it." She clapped her hands over her mouth, startled. "I didn't really mean that, but... let's go already. I've already briefed Harry and Bill on what's happening next - you just have to sit there and let it happen, okay? Let us know if it's too much or it hurts or anything, but I don't think it should. But the only text I could find of something similar was back in the 1400s, and--"

Potter ushered her away, then returned and met his eyes. And Merlin, Draco wasn't feeling quite so sleepy anymore, was he. Internally kicking himself, he tried to slouch back down to his former position as Potter stared at him, mouth moving and sounds occurring but not quite making any sense. And then _Oh_ , he was _really_ paying attention, as Potter knelt to the ground right in front of him, reaching for his lap.

Draco gaped at him for a heartbeat, then just about clambered up his chair. "Just _what_ do you think you're doing, Potter?" he proclaimed, shrilly. Potter rolled his eyes and shrugged, unperturbed, and grabbed his hand to cradle it between both of his. He had that intense Potter stare going on, a tiny furrow forming between his brows, clearly already concentrating on the task at hand. Trying to collect himself, Draco tore his eyes off the scene in front of him to concentrate on anyone, ANYTHING else in the room. What was going on? He didn't remember this part of the ritual, but clearly everyone else did. Hermione was already buried back in another textbook (where did she even pull that one out from?), Luna had vanished to who knows where looking for who knows what, Bill casting protective charms over Harry, but Blaise met his eyes, leaning up against the wall, just watching everything unfold in front of him. And just when Draco thought things couldn't get worse, couldn't humiliate him any more... Blaise's eyes slid from Draco to Potter, and back again. A lifted eyebrow. A twitch of his lips, a smirk. _He knew_. The bastard. And then...

"Hey Draco, everything okay over there? You look a little flushed. Maybe Harry can give you a hand?"

He was going to _murder_ Zabini. He knew too much, had listened to him angst back in the dormitories. Knew of his proclivities, that little bit of Saviour worship, his penchant for dark-haired men with intense eyes. He glared his famous Malfoy glare, but it didn't seem to phase him, only got a low rumble of a chuckle. _Damn him_. Once he got rid of this little (but rapidly growing) problem in his pants, he'd... 

The snake. The snake was stirring. A little part of his brain nagged at him, _Not like your trouser snake isn't stirring too._ Not now, brain, not helping! But Potter was still crouched over his lap, holding his arm so carefully, and hissing directly towards his crotch. He wasn't prepared for this. He was prepared for pain, for agony, for tears... but not this. Not Potter, stroking his forearm gently, literally running his fingertips right by the Mark, where everything was hypersensitive and already raw from everything today.

Long, slow, sibilant sounds emerged from Potter's mouth, and the snake revealed itself (herself? Himself? How do you sex a tattoo snake?! Does she even care about gender? She's definitely a she). And as Draco tried to will his body to calm itself, she wound her way up Draco's arm, the very image of her looking more and more real. He could _feel_ her scales sliding along his arm, raising goosebumps in their wake. The dry flicker of her tongue, delicate yet intense, along his bicep. Draco was frozen. He couldn't move a muscle; just felt her sinuous (and sensual?! Oh no) glide along his shoulder now, oh Merlin, and now along the side of his neck. Harry must have looked up and seen Draco's eyes, for he let loose a soft chuckle, then beckoned to her again, walking his fingers down over his naked collarbones, down his side. When the fuck did he lose his shirt?! He's shirtless and getting aroused by a snake and _losing his everloving mind._

Long moments passed, of Draco breathing with conscious effort, slow and measured, not wanting to disturb the snake or her handler. When he realized that the fingers had stopped walking, he realized his eyes were shut, and he opened them. An audience. Of course. Hermione intently studying the snake, now undulating slowly just under the left side of his ribcage. Luna, smiling directly at the snake, disconcertingly close to his nipple. Bill, checking the magic threads, combing through where the snake had unwound hers from the black tangles, trailing emerald green threads herself. Blaise, still smirking in the corner, the bastard.

And Potter, staring fondly at him with a softness in his eyes, some unnamed emotion welling up between them. He looked as if he were PROUD of him. Then suddenly _he was in Harry's mind_ , drifting within warmth. He could hear Hermione talking again, saying something about how the remaining Mark looked, versus what the snake had taken with her. She sounded pleased, off in the real world. But he could see now, through Harry's eyes, his talks with this little snake. Couldn't understand the words, but could feel his emotions with the conversation. Could feel the his heartbeat, happy and feeling somehow so _alive,_ filled with joy. As quickly as it happened, Draco was suddenly back in his own mind, looking at Harry's eyes again, hearing Hermione speak through his own ears. OOPS, Harry mouthed at him, then smiled. 

\------

Luna was the first to skip off, stating that the Eloxis living in the walls of the Manor would be watching them and keeping them safe. She had a late night card reading she had to attend, you know how it is, 4th day after the new moon and 3rd Thursday of the month. Bill begged off not too long afterwards. "Not so sure about those Eloxis, but the real dark magic has already been broken. Now it's just the cleanup. And Fleur's something else if she gets stuck with putting our little girl to bed." Then Hermione checked the clock and exclaimed that it was getting late, that she too, had plans tonight, and if Ron were stood up yet again for work matters, he just might lose it. 

"Well gentlemen, it seems it's just the three of us now." Blaise winked saucily, and that was just SO peak Blaise that Draco couldn't stand it, snorting out the first chuckle he'd had all day. "But back to business. As much as I love a good threesome, Hermione made me promise that I'm just to do the honors of tattooing something to trap the skull and the rest of the Mark. Draco, of the sketches that you sent me, I believe the fern and daffodils seems like the most potent combination. And Neville helped make these inks specially - they're a bit more finicky to work with, but I think it'll be worth it for the extra protection. Thestral mane, a special blend of Leaping Toadstools, specifically harvested from the Dark Lord's burial grounds, and bark of a Wiggentree. The design is pretty intense, not really something I'd want an apprentice doing, let alone someone who's just learning about tattoos. There's wards built into the different layers, and you'll need to keep a light hand to prevent killing off the daffodil bulbs from the getgo. So here's the catch - apparently you'll need to be the one holding the gun; it needs to be your magic, because it's your wards. I'm just guiding your hand through the motions to make sure everything's fresh enough to bloom."

"Oh, and Potter here, he'll be providing all the love and protection, because you know him - just taking care of everyone and everything. Nah, it's cause he casts a mean Patronus, and you'll literally be weaving that into your wards. So don't mind him, we'll just be holding hands for a few hours, bent over, while Potter casts at our backsides for you to channel all that sexy, Saviour magic into your body. You ready?"

At least with Blaise's bullshit, it's not as sexy to hear that way. But Blaise really wasn't kidding about the positions - it felt forced and awkward, trying to draw on your own arm while someone else held your hand, all the while with the burning of the tattooing itself. Draco and Blaise had to get situated on the loveseat just so they had room to both be sitting, and of course, Blaise's body ended up pressed against him so that they could both tattoo with the same hand. Add to that the fact that the snake was still slowly tracing around his pectoral, nesting awfully close to his nipple.

And then the straw that broke the camel's back - feeling Potter's magic envelop him in blissful white light, so bright that it became hard to see the tattoo at all, and sinfully good as it thudded into his back and dissipated all down his spine, running down his casting arm and through his fingertips. He was only _human_ , there's only so much sensation that a man can take like this! He was choking back moans every time Harry recast. It didn't help that Blaise was clearly feeling the heat too, also trying to stay professional. And as he kept tattooing, he started to wonder about the emotions behind Potter's Patronus. Was that just friendly love he felt through the Patronus? Or was he starting to feel a trickle of lust, want tamped down hard, some curiosity in how the Patronus would nuzzle him and then fizzle into his skin? He couldn't be sure. But he hoped.

\---

Sweaty, exhausted, and just plain worn out, they finally stopped to admire their work. The skull was still there, obviously. But bulbs had been planted all around and through it, with the early start of some green already peeking out, roots entangling into the skull. A ring of ferns encircled the skull, though the daffodils would likely spill over soon enough. And it all felt so alive, so fresh - Draco could almost smell the rich dirt and the smell of spring when he focused on it. Blaise seemed oddly satisfied as well. And Potter. Once he finally turned to look at him, their eyes caught, and held. 

"Well, it's been fun, but I'm desperately in need of a cigarette and a shag now. Merlin, Harry. I'm off to the clubs, too hot and heavy for me in here." Blaise winks yet again, then disapparates, the burst of air startling Draco. Draco turns, ready to say some reluctant goodnights and then scurry away to wank himself with the sparks of Potter's magic racing across his skin, still channeling down his casting arm, but then arcing across to his cock. He can imagine it already, how good it will feel, how he'll shiver and shake with its intensity. 

And then, Potter's all over him, crowding him against the loveseat, the bright green eyes turned dark now. He's more than half hard already, rutting up against Draco as he scrambles to collect his thoughts. "Draco, fuck, the way you cast, the way your magic curls around mine, fuck. Tell me that you want this. Fuck. I meant to date you properly but please, let me know if you want this too or I can go home just, _FUCK_." Their lips crash together, high on adrenaline and drunk on the feel of each other's skin, after such a long day.

Having dragged down Potter in a heap of limbs and residual magics (He can feel Harry's magic IN him, in his arm but slowly pulsating throughout his body), he wonders if he's died and gone to heaven. _Fuck is right. All the fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck._ And now Harry's looking at him, laughter writ all across his face. "I don't think you meant to say all those fucks aloud, but just come here, I've waited too long for this." 

They roll onto the floor, and Draco, half delirious with all the madness of the day, just giggles, feeling loose and slaphappy and all sorts of ways that a Malfoy should never be. And yet, here he is. Pinned beneath one very sexy Harry Potter. Hard, and rubbing on more hardness. On a shag rug. Heh. Shag. Shag on the shag rug. He giggles some more.

"Draco. Really. Fuck you're hot like this, you're killing me, but I just need to know. Yes? Too tired to tell? It's really okay, I'll just need a few minutes."

Draco breathes his consent into Harry's mouth, and leans up to kiss him more. "Bedroom's the third door on the right. Carry me. Now."

Draco is pleased to note that Harry's a very good listener when motivated. Harry's biceps feel even better than anticipated, and he's _strong_. He picks up Draco like he's weightless, and Draco buries his face into Harry's neck, his collarbones, where his very ugly but very soft t-shirt dips a little too low with years of wear. But it's so good, it's all so good, Draco feels like he's floating and loved and cared for and his brain is absolute mush.

Harry drops him off on the bed, says "Wait here, I just gotta take a quick slash," and Draco's out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, Draco had a tough day! I didn't think there would be more, but apparently, there will be more. Thanks again for reading! Constructive criticism/feedback greatly appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for the smut? Because here's the smut. Hope you enjoy! First time writing smut and I nearly quit halfway, so hopefully it's not too terrible. Plot pretty much left entirely. Whoops.
> 
> Also, major sap alert for the ending!

At apparently 5:23am, Draco wakes up with a start, feeling awfully like he was hungover, but a little different. He goes to reach for his wand on his nightstand and hits a wall of flesh instead.

Startling, he looks over and rubs the sleep out of his eyes not just once, but twice, because _IS THAT POTTER OH HOLY HELL._ It doesn't take long for his brain to be fully revved on, and Draco distantly admires the full, luscious bubble butt right next to him while also panicking internally. Thankfully all his clothes still appear to be on, though Potter seems to have abandoned his trousers halfway across the room, and only one sock is visible, chucked over the rung of a chair. His left forearm tingles faintly and he rubs it absent-mindedly, just as Potter stretches, yawns, and rolls right over. Blinks. Opens his eyes. _So green._ Says, "Hey, gorgeous" in what is probably just a sleepy voice but sounds like an insanely sexy growl.

Draco meeps out a brief hello, then looks away, looks at anything but those eyes before he gets stuck, and finally sees his arm. His arm, which no longer has a dark mark, but instead has beautiful, lush foliage choking out a skull. He stills, and stares. Potter, following his eyes, looks down and mutters out an _oh..._

He reaches out for Draco's arm, asking "May I?" right before he lays his hand on Draco's forearm and studies it, traces the ferns with his other finger, oh so lightly. Draco's not quite sure, but if his cock weren't hard already, the tracing certainly woke it up. The tingles run straight down his back to pool deep in his belly. His back, which was sensually assaulted by Potter's Patronus all last night, it seems.

"Sleep well?" Harry asks, a bit of a lilt of a laugh, and then he remembers, and flushes a bright red.

 _"Oh bloody hell_ , did I fall asleep on you?!" Flustered and embarrassed, Draco makes as if to get off the bed and leave in horror, forgetting that his arm is still being held by one very handsome, and apparently entertained, Harry Potter.

Instead, he gets pulled down onto the bed, warm lips descending on his. So soft, so plush, so warm, the rich feel of Potter's magic rippling down through his arm and all around him, flooding his senses. Everything he breathes feels like Potter, smells like Potter, _is_ Potter. He's drowning in a sea of Potter and he's not even trying to stay afloat, just letting him run his hands all over, gently squeezing, manipulating, massaging.

Potter gives his lips a bit of respite but wreaks havoc on his senses as he moves down his jawline, giving a little nip to his earlobe, breathing out a " _So good, Draco, that's it"_ that just turns his already sleep addled brain even more info mush. And while he's pondering how on earth he got so hard, so fast, Potter's nibbling his way down his neck, laving at the cords staining from Draco throwing his head back, catching his wrists with his hands and holding them down lightly. " _Ah ah, those stay right there."_ Draco's dreams are NEVER this good, this must be real, right?

And then oh, this must be real, because Potter rucks up his shirt and nips at his right nipple and it _hurts_ (and maybe he yelps), and Potter chuckles and goes to do the other and just stops, just STOPS, and Draco's brain is so confused but his cock is just waiting for the next thing and nothing's happening and then -

Potter puts his mouth right over his nipple, and hisses, his tongue flickering against that sensitive nub like mad. It shoots straight down his spine and he is oh so hard but the weirdest sensation occurs, the skin over that pec rippling and flickering on its own. The _snake_! Draco had completely forgotten. He peered down in curiosity, just as Potter tilts his head up and kittenishly licks his nipple, making sure to hold eye contact. 

"Potter" he grounds out, between gritted teeth "get on with it!" Potter just chuckles again ( _infuriating!_ ) and hisses, the snake quiets down and seems to settle again, and Potter rocks back to sit on his thighs and settle as well. He studies him, from up there, a curious tilt to his head, that messy mop curling over his forehead and obscuring his eyes just a little bit, a tiny smile playing on his lips. Draco goes to touch him and finds that his wrists are still being held, albeit lightly, and he tries to cover up his moan. Potter's eyes blaze, alight with what looks like amusement and lust as he leans down to trace Draco's lips with his own, flicking his tongue against him oh so lightly.

"So. Here's the deal. You were awfully cute all snuggled up, passed out in bed, but I had a wicked pair of blue balls to work through before I fell asleep. Didn't want to jerk off in your bed without you being conscious, that just seems rude. So. I think turnabout is fair play here." He sits up straight, eyes sharpening. "I propose a little game here. I've been wound up all night. You, not so much. Are you familiar with edging?"

Draco fights down the squirming, though he's sure the blush extends far past his neck at those point. There's no way Potter didn't feel his cock jump with that either, thumping eagerly against his arse. And oh, judging by the way Potter just ground his hips back, he definitely knows. 

"Alright, so, we'll have to negotiate properly later, but how do you feel about edging for a bit?" Draco nods eagerly, head spinning with the implications. Edging? _Negotiations_? And here he thought the Golden Boy would be a prude! Be still, his heart, pounding away wildly in his chest. Wait, does those mean the girl Weasel was kinky? Obliviate that thought right this second.

His mind whites out anyhow, when Potter grins and readjusts his wrists, pinning them even more tightly, above his head this time, with just one hand. His other hand reaches down to grip Draco's...hip, damnit, so close yet so far, and hold it down firmly, with Potter grinding down on his abdomen. A beautiful view, really, Potter all stretched out above him, lean but built, t-shirt riding up to reveal some truly beautiful abs. And Merlin, Draco feels like he's stretched out on display, though he realizes that there's way too much clothing in the way for both of them. Potter just have reached the same conclusion, because he picks at his shirt for just a moment, then sighs, utters a firm "STAY", while he begrudgingly takes his hands off Draco to peel off his t-shirt. 

Draco stays frozen, and it's too easy to stay - his eyes busy roving all over that broad chest that he hasn't seen in _years._ The papers said he didn't join the Aurors (yet) but clearly he was doing _something_ right for his body. His hands clench into the bedspread, holding onto anything they can to keep from touching. Potter sees, of course, and with a little smirk and a long stroke of Draco's body, from shoulder down to his hip, leans forward to whisper in his ear, " _Good boy,_ Draco, that's it." 

Moments later, Potter drapes himself over the side of Draco, using a leg to pin his two down, leaning on his elbow, hand tracing slowly over his collarbones and flirting at the base of his neck. Draco's hands aren't pinned, per se, but he went to move one and a little shake from Potter's head stilled its movement again. He's panting, exhaling shaky little breaths, and hard as he's ever been, surprisingly close from so little direct stimulation. 

"You probably shouldn't be using that arm too much today anyhow, after all the work we did together on it yesterday. I still feel my magic in you there. Do you?" Gentle murmuring, fingers running up and down his torso, occasionally dipping down to run the length of his iliac crest and _squeeze_ , just for a moment, just enough for Draco to shudder. He's so gone, already. He's not sure how long Potter has been commenting on things, these little mundane observations and thoughts, so at odds with the fires he's experiencing throughout his body. His brain is lulled into a false sense of security, trying to listen to these words that have no real purpose, while his body just aches with increasing desperation. At Potter's next question, some idle curiosity about what Taffy might serve for breakfast, Draco's mouth takes a mind of its own. " _ **Please**_ , Potter." 

A smile, genuine but entertained, as Potter's fingers still from where they were slowly ringing his cock. "Oh? Did you need something from me? And don't you think my first name would be more appropriate now?" He skims his fingers up, then finally slides his fist down, uttering, "Say my name." 

"Please, _Harry_ , please just, oh Merlin do that again." Potter, no, _Harry_ , smirks. "Good boy, keep going." 

He pants, torn between watching Harry's face as he grins, or his cock, as it's steadily wanked, cockhead shining with precum and disappearing again and again as Harry works him over steadily. It doesn't take long before Draco is reduced to moans, occasionally uttering a broken _Harry_ , or _please,_ catching his breath and holding it for long moments, thighs flexing rhythmically underneath Harry's leg.

"You're gorgeous like this, you know? I could watch you like this all day" and Draco breaks with a little wail, "Do you think you could handle it? All wound up, waiting for _E_ _ach. Teasing. Stroke._ "

Draco thrashes, reining himself in hard, "Fuck please, Harry, harder, I can't, I need- _please Harry_ , make me come for you!"

With a snarl, Harry rolls over him properly and catches his lips in a savage, bruising kiss. He reaches down to grab both of their cocks, frotting wildly, hand stripping them both as he growls into Draco's mouth. "Fucking come for me then, Draco, shoot it all over yourself. Fuck, I'm so close, gonna spill all over you, you're going to have me all over-"

Lips locked, Draco's squeal is swallowed by Harry as he arches his back and comes, messily, liberal amounts smearing between them both, hearing nothing but white noise and the loud sound of his heartbeat trying to thump through his chest. As his senses come back to him, he sees Harry sprawled next to him, limp and languid, also trying to catch his breath. 

"... Well, then, good morning, Harry." The unruly mop moves, bright eyes and a smile directed at him. "Morning to you too. C'mere, is too early to be up"and he lets himself be gathered up and drawn to Harry, simultaneously feeling a warm sensation run down his front, cleaning him.

And an answering sensation stirs on his forearm, where the new tattoo is - Harry's magic, responding to its owner. He brings his arm up, to study it. "So weird. It's like the old Mark, where it tingles... But this just feels good. Feels clean, feels likes love." He twists his head to look at Harry. "It feels like _this._ "

Harry places his palm on the tattoo, and draws him in for another kiss. "That's because it _is_ love. And you deserve that on you, forever." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
